


Another Summer

by emotionalsupportfastcars



Series: Études [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: And Music, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a zillion references to canon, and gestures, charles leclerc plays the piano, communicating via physical touch, thoughts on the similarities between racing cars and playing instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsupportfastcars/pseuds/emotionalsupportfastcars
Summary: Charles plays the piano for Pierre.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Series: Études [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065098
Comments: 28
Kudos: 70





	Another Summer

Charles finds out from some fucking random Instagram post. 

It’s just a rumour, of course, but it’s not like there is no precedent for this. Exhibit A: 2016.

But given last race’s results, and everything that’s happened the past few races... 

Charles goes to Google, types in a couple of words, and sees all the headlines from all the official sites.

He checks his messages. WhatsApp. Twitter. Instagram.

No unread message from the person whose name he always looks for on result tables. When they raced in different series, he’d Google up results. A few hours later, he’d inevitably get the news direct from the source, accompanied by unfiltered commentary.

Charles refreshes his messaging apps. More unread messages. None are what he’s looking for.

Charles goes back to Google and stares at the headlines again.

After just 12 races, Red Bull has demoted Pierre Gasly to Toro Rosso.

  


* * *

  


Charles tries to come up with a plan while aimlessly scrolling through unread messages.

There’s a WhatsApp from an unknown number. He clicks on it.

> **Unknown Number:** Charles, it’s Daniil Kvyat. I got your number from Seb. Is Pierre replying to you?

Right. Exhibit A: 2016.

> **Charles:** I just found out  
>  **Daniil:** Oh  
>  **Charles:** From fucking Instagram  
>  **Charles:** I’ve got unread messages from his family and our mutual friends  
>  **Daniil:** He shouldn’t be alone  
>  **Charles:** Oh fuck he’s in Italy isn’t he  
>  **Daniil:** Should be  
>  **Daniil:** I need to be at home with Kelly and my daughter but I’ll do what I can  
>  **Daniil:** Uber him to yours or something  
>  **Charles:** Right  
>  **Charles:** Congrats btw  
>  **Charles:** I’ll send over a present  
>  **Daniil:** Thanks  
>  **Daniil:** No rush. Check up on Pierre first.  
>  **Charles:** I’ll call him  
> 

As the call rings, Charles flips through his messages and prays that Pierre will answer.

Pierre picks up.

“Pierre.”

Silence.

“I love you,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Silence. 

“Can I go over?” 

Silence.

Charles looks down at his clenched fist. He feels so... useless.

“Pierre. I’ll drive over, okay? I’ll leave now.”

“It’s five hours.” Pierre’s voice is rougher than usual.

“I don’t want you to be alone.” There. He’s said it. 

Silence.

“Please.“ 

“I just - I can’t face anyone.”

“Let one of us go over, then. Me, Antonio, Anthoine.”

“I don’t want anyone to come here.”

“Come to mine? Daniil said he’d Uber you here. He texted you.”

“Daniil?”

“Kvyat, yeah.”

“You know each other?”

“He texted me. Got my number from Seb.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Please.”

Pierre sighs.

“How long can I stay?”

“As long as you want, you know that.”

Another sigh.

“Let me check whether Pyry lets me off for a few days. I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

  


* * *

  


> **Pierre:** Pyry says ok  
>  **Pierre:** Need to video myself exercising and send it to him  
>  **Charles:** Ok  
>  **Charles:** <3

Despite Daniil’s offer, Pierre insists on driving himself. Charles makes Pierre turn on WhatsApp’s location services - “Do me a favour, okay, calamar?” - and watches it like a hawk on his laptop. When the dot starts moving rapidly, Charles finally takes the time to properly read his messages and replies to a bunch of people.

  


* * *

  


Charles’ doorbell rings about 10 minutes after Pierre’s location dot shows that he’s parked at one of the numerous underground parking lots near Charles’ apartment. 

Pierre’s in an oversized black shirt and navy shorts, sunglasses over his eyes and a plain black cap pulled low over his head.

Charles leans in for their usual hug but Pierre shakes his head. Charles settles for patting Pierre’s shoulder instead, except the moment his hand makes contact, Pierre recoils. Charles knows Pierre is hurting but also - that fucking hurt.

Pierre must’ve noticed his expression. “I don’t - it’s not you.”

Charles swallows his pride and tries to stamp down the hurt. “Okay,” he manages. 

They stand there awkwardly for who knows how long before it occurs to Charles that Pierre’s been driving for hours. “Wanna shower?” he offers, trying to keep his voice steady. “Your stuff’s in the usual place, or you can use whatever I have.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

  


* * *

  


Pierre’s long shower gives Charles plenty of time to figure out what to do. Charles’ brain decides to spend the time going in circles.

He heads to the kitchen when he hears Pierre open the bedroom door.

“I got you tiramisu,” he tries, holding out the plate, a bite-sized piece already speared on a dessert fork. “From your favourite place.”

“Can’t.” says Pierre. “Diet.”

Right. 

“Wanna play FIFA?”

“No.”

Pierre sits on the sofa, hugs a cushion, and doesn’t speak. Charles gets a book and reads it, except he ends up reading the same sentence five times to process it. He tries scrolling through Instagram and Twitter, but stupid posts about Pierre’s demotion keep showing up because of stupid algorithms. Charles fumes silently and turns to Great British Bake Off highlights, fantasising about all the cake he wants to eat at the end of the season.

Pierre has no opinions on dinner, so Charles cooks spaghetti alle vongole.

Dinner is a silent, stilted affair.

He goes to wash up, but Pierre stops him. “I’ll do the dishes.”

“It’s fine.” Charles needs something to do, really.

Frustration blooms on Pierre’s face for a second before it vanishes and Pierre’s face returns to its expressionless self.

“Okay.”

Pierre ends up helping anyway, and Charles lets him. They’ve done this enough times that they can work together in perfect synchrony without talking and this, at least, hasn’t changed. If Charles pretends, he can almost trick himself into thinking that this is just another day spent together.

For lack of anything better to do, Charles flicks the TV on and leaves it on some sports channel that’s showing some football. He supports A.S. Monaco, of course, but he’s not as emotionally attached to them as Pierre is to PSG.

Charles lets the commentary wash over him as he contemplates how to bring up the awkward topic of Where Do You Want To Sleep. He can’t remember the last time they’ve stayed at each other’s places or hotel rooms and not ended up in the same bed. But well, there’s also the part where Pierre’s rejected any and all physical contact that Charles tried initiating today.

“If you’d rather -” he broaches awkwardly, not knowing how to phrase it. 

Pierre’s eyes flick over.

“If you want, you can sleep in the spare room. Or you can sleep in mine and I’ll use the spare room.”

Pierre’s eyes flick away.

“Or -” Fuck, why are words so hard. Can’t Pierre just read his mind or something? “Or we can sleep in my room. As usual.”

Pierre’s eyes flick back. “Usual.”

“Okay.”

Ugh, this is frustrating. Pierre’s been unhappy over racing before, of course, but this is a whole new level of unhappiness. Charles can’t reconcile the Pierre in front of him with the Pierre who normally never shuts up and frequently bursts out laughing at something or other.

  


* * *

  


Charles pulls out Pierre’s pillows from the cupboard. It's been a while since Pierre last stayed over, so Charles puts fresh pillowcases on them and fluffs them up. He dumps them on the bed and resigns himself to an awkward night. He’s so used to casual touches when they’re alone that he’s had to watch himself like a hawk all day to make sure that he doesn’t accidentally touch Pierre.

There’s no conversation.

As usual, Pierre takes the right side of the bed.

When Charles was small, he’d sleep on his left side. However, years of lying next to Pierre on just about anything - blankets, towels, the sand on the beach, deck chairs, actual beds - have changed his sleeping habits. 

As kids, they’d frequently talk until one of them fell asleep in the middle of a sentence. Since a parent would inevitably come in to scold them for staying up past their bedtime, they rapidly learnt to keep their voices low. Their solution led to another problem - it’s harder for the other person to hear you when you’re facing away from them. Charles solved this problem by teaching himself to sleep on his back. At this point, it’s been his default sleeping position for years.

Today, however, Charles chooses to sleep on his left side. He doesn’t need to be reminded that Pierre won’t even look him in the eye.

The silence is unnerving. 

Some time later, Charles feels like he’s being watched. He rolls over and sees Pierre looking at him, eyes barely visible in the dim light coming from a bedside lamp. 

Pierre’s lying on his left side, as usual. His left arm is stretched towards Charles, crossing the bed’s invisible midpoint boundary that Charles has kept well away from. Charles considers the possible implications before slowly moving his right arm in a deliberate movement towards Pierre, mentally ready for Pierre to move away or to do nothing.

He stops moving when his arm is still a distance away from Pierre.

Pierre inches his arm towards Charles’, and Charles inches his arm towards Pierre’s. It takes a few turns, but eventually their pinkies are right next to each other, almost touching. 

It’s Charles’ turn to move but he doesn’t know whether he’s welcome. He glances at Pierre, wondering how to ask the question.

Their eyes meet. He watches Pierre swallow.

He feels Pierre’s pinky touch his own before skimming down in a gentle stroke. Charles turns his palm over in silent invitation and watches. Slowly, slowly, Pierre slides his palm over Charles’ and interlaces their fingers. Charles feels his shoulders drop down from where they’ve unconsciously bunched up towards his neck.

He watches Pierre’s fingers flex against his own as Pierre momentarily stretches in the opposite direction to turn off the lamp.

It’s pitch dark.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.

  


* * *

  


The next day is more of the same.

Pierre huddles up with his phones - the only things he brought to Monaco other than his car - eats in silence, helps with the dishes, and speaks only when absolutely necessary, such as when he asked Charles to help him set his phone up to record his workout. Charles double-checks that the tripod is stable before pressing record. He gives Pierre a thumbs-up. Pierre returns the gesture in thanks and starts hauling himself up the pull-up bar in grim determination.

Charles retreats to the bedroom to contemplate his options. He’s unfortunately well-versed in grief, though not of this sort, and he knows Pierre is humiliated and grieving. Grieving for a season gone horribly wrong, grieving for broken dreams, grieving for broken promises.

Charles turns the matter over in his mind. There are a lot of things that he could do. Yet, the best option seems to be doing nothing and letting Pierre take his time. To comfort himself, Charles reminds himself that by doing what he’s doing now, he can at least reassure their mutual friends and their families that he’s with Pierre and is taking care of him. Even if, at the moment, Pierre’s mostly just going through the motions.

But it's hard - it's so hard when all he wants to do is to cuddle Pierre and make him talk about it.

Charles offers to step out for an hour or two so Pierre can get some alone time, but Pierre shakes his head. He still doesn’t want to game and doesn’t even feign interest in the PSG 2018-19 season highlights that Charles loaded up on YouTube. Talking’s clearly out of the question, so Charles switches the television to the Netflix app and picks up from where he left off yesterday with more Great British Bake Off replays.

Once again, Pierre has no opinions on dinner. Charles orders Kobe beef from a well-known Japanese restaurant and tries not to wince at the bill. It’s one of Pierre’s favourite meals, he reminds himself. It’s worth the money.

That night, by the time Charles emerges from the bathroom, Pierre’s already flat on the bed, eyes closed. Charles slides in next to Pierre and lies down on his back, a little closer to the middle of the bed. He hears Pierre move and smiles when Pierre’s fingers brush his arm, searching. It takes a few tries, but their fingers eventually interlace.

It is easier to fall asleep that night.

  


* * *

  


Day three.

Pierre still isn’t talking, but he did purposely brush the back of his hand against Charles’ before they finally got out of bed for a late late breakfast that was basically lunch. Pierre also didn’t reject Charles’ tentative post-meal hand-squeeze, so Charles concludes that Pierre is now okay with Charles initiating _some_ level of physical affection. 

Charles is back on the sofa, watching Pierre wipe down the sink. Pierre finishes and turns towards the living room, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. 

Charles pats the seat next to him. “Come here?”

Pierre tilts his head, considering, and nods before disappearing into the bedroom. He reappears with two pillows. 

To Charles’ surprise, instead of sitting down next to him, Pierre plops one pillow on Charles’ lap before lying down on it. Pierre wraps his arms around the other pillow, closes his eyes and sprawls out, letting his long legs stretch over the sofa’s length. Charles smiles at the familiar ritual and slips his fingers into Pierre’s hair, carding through it. After a few minutes, he leans back and lets his eyes fall shut, fingers still absently playing with Pierre’s hair.

“Charles?”

“Hm?” 

“Play something?” whispers Pierre.

Charles opens his eyes and looks down. Pierre’s eyes remain closed.

“What do you want?” murmurs Charles, twirling a lock of Pierre’s hair around his index finger.

Pierre shrugs and turns his head to the side.

Charles kisses Pierre’s temple before carefully standing up and gently lowering Pierre and the pillows to the sofa.

He seats himself at his piano, opens it, and stares down at the gold 'Steinway & Sons' text. It’s the first thing Pierre has asked for since he showed up at Charles’ doorstep on Monday and Charles swears his heart is racing more than it does during a Q3 hotlap.

He curves his fingers over the black and white keys and starts playing the most recent thing he’s learned - the Interstellar theme.

He finishes and turns around. Pierre hasn’t moved.

Charles walks over and drops to his knees next to Pierre, sliding his fingers through Pierre’s hair again.

“Should I keep playing?”

Pierre nods, eyes still shut, expression still neutral.

As Charles stands up, he notices an old race trophy. Small, compared to his single-seater trophies. But it was so large, back then. So heavy.

He thinks about the year he and Pierre were karting teammates and how every memory from that year has Pierre in it in some form. Racing against Pierre. Eating with Pierre. Falling asleep next to Pierre. Waking up grumbling at the alarm, taking the first shower to let Pierre sleep in a little more before poking Pierre awake because they were going to be late. Even the times he spent without Pierre involve Pierre because he’d be looking forward to telling Pierre about what happened. 

He thinks about yearly holidays with Pierre and their families in the south of France. Thinks about hours curled up next to Pierre in buses, trains, planes, and cars. Pierre’s shoulder was Charles’ favourite place to doze off on. Still is, although Charles has to sink down further in his seat now that Pierre is no longer half a head taller than him.

The first Monaco Grand Prix that Pierre spent at Charles’ home. Charles insisting that Pierre wouldn’t be able to sleep in - that even the feeder series’ engines would wake Pierre up at 8am on a Thursday morning. Reminding Pierre that the F1 cars would go out for free practice at 11. Pierre scoffing at Charles and then, the next morning, Pierre rolling over half asleep and very very disgruntled, whining and trying to cover his ears with pillows. Charles giggling and repeating “I told you so,” as Pierre pouted at him. 

Pierre, an hour later, wide awake and staring in the direction of engine sounds, his face alight with wonder. Pierre, hair carefully styled, hopping from one foot to the other as they waited for Charles’ parents to take them to the race track.

Pierre and Charles, standing shoulder to shoulder and watching as a bright red Ferrari and a white and navy Williams zoomed past them at blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speeds. Pierre and Charles, listening to the distinctive timbre of V10 engines and marvelling at how the sounds vibrated through their bodies, even with earplugs. Pierre and Charles, pointing and laughing and dreaming about the day they’d drive in F1 together and win World Championships.

And suddenly - Charles knows exactly what to play.

It’s been years since Charles played this song and he’s never been very good at piano - the demands of a racing career preventing him from taking regular lessons. But Pierre’s never complained about Charles’ piano skills or lack thereof.

Charles closes his eyes and mentally runs over the entire song, fingers twitching as muscle memories trigger. He opens his eyes and positions his fingers over the keys before curving them. Right foot over the sustaining pedal, ready to press down. Left foot pressed against the floor, grounding him. He mentally counts himself in and plays.

To the untrained ear, the song is deceptively simple - a gentle melodic pattern repeating itself in various incarnations. Then - the melody slows down - a plaintive voice calling out. Calling out to another time. And then - the rapid arpeggios - sixteenth notes sounding like an acceleration after the earlier long notes, catching out any unsuspecting pianist, lulled into complacency by the slow pace of the earlier sections. 

And then - a brief pause before the right hand launches itself further right to repeat the entire melody from the beginning. The difference? The notes are an octave higher.

Throughout all those changes, the left hand remains steady - a firm foundation of four broken chords repeated over and over from the beginning to the end.

For such a short song, it has so many different parts. Almost like a racing track. Different corners and straights, each with their own character, each to be handled in a different way. Every decision made with the flow to the next turn in mind. Carefully manoeuvring around sharp corners and chicanes, taking kerbs at speed, choosing braking zones and racing lines. Constant upshifts to the maximum gear to speed down the start-finish straight before downshifting to the inevitable Turn 1. 

Charles chose to play at a slightly slower tempo. It’s mostly because he’s severely out of practice and he doesn’t want to run the risk of losing control over his fingers during the most difficult part of the song. As he successfully threads his way through the first run of sixteenth arpeggios and earns himself a reprieve as the melody slows back to eighth notes, he realises that the slower tempo makes the song sound more... everything. More gentle. More nostalgic. 

He finishes the song. Even at the slower pace, his out-of-practice fingers still stumbled. But since he caught himself in time and didn’t let it break the song’s flow, he doubts Pierre noticed. 

He remains bowed over the piano as the final chord fades into silence. Realises he's been biting the inside of his cheeks and consciously relaxes his jaw. Releases the breath he’s unconsciously held. And tiptoes over to Pierre.

Pierre still hasn’t moved, but his eyes are open and his cheeks are wet. He’s staring at the ceiling.

Charles’ thumbs brush against Pierre’s cheeks, gently wiping them.

“We watched it the year we were teammates,” whispers Pierre. “Didn’t we?”

“Yeah.” It was at Charles’ house. Family movie night, except Pierre stayed over so often that he was automatically included in all the Leclerc household traditions. What he remembers from that night is not the movie itself, but his and Pierre’s silent competition to see who could eat more chips from their shared snack bowl before they curled up together under Charles’ duvet, satiated and content.

“You begged your parents to buy the score and learnt how to play it when you were at home. I was there, sometimes.”

“You’d sit next to me,” murmurs Charles. “Sing the melody. Play a few notes.”

Pierre’s silent for a while. And then -

“Comptine d'un autre été.” Pierre chokes the words out. Children’s song from another summer. His breath hitches, a sob escaping. “L’après midi.” The afternoon.

Pierre quickly takes a deep breath, biting his lip, but then another sob escapes, and another. All while Pierre’s visibly fighting it.

Charles helps Pierre sit up before darting into his room to grab a box of tissues. He wraps his arms around Pierre and lets Pierre cling to him. Lets Pierre fall apart.

The room is silent except for Pierre’s muffled sounds.

“I was happy,” Pierre mutters, eventually. “That summer.”

“You’ll have another happy summer, I promise.” Charles will make it happen. Somehow. 

Pierre is silent. Then - “What if I mess up in the Toro Rosso?”

Charles considers his next words carefully. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Pierre can’t bounce back. It’s just - he doesn’t want to say something that might haunt Pierre later.

“You loved it there last year, didn’t you?” he ventures. “You said everyone was really supportive.”

“What if I’m dropped after this season? Brendon only had one season and they were questioning his results from the start. Just like they did to me this year.”

“You’ll find a way,” he says, more confidently than he feels, because while every single Formula 1 team is a pressure cooker, Red Bull turns it up to eleven, burning through their academy to find the next Sebastian Vettel and Max Verstappen. Besides, what else _can_ he say that doesn’t sound like a false promise?

“If I’m dropped, we won’t be in the same place anymore.”

“You’ll find a way,” he repeats. “Besides, we weren’t on the same continent when you were in Super Formula and we managed, right?”

Pierre makes a frustrated gesture with his hands. “We weren’t dating.”

They’ve never really discussed this change in their relationship. It happened so suddenly - during last year’s first test weekend in Barcelona. Charles was starting his rookie F1 season with Sauber and Pierre was starting his first full season at Toro Rosso after his shock call-up to replace Daniil at the 2017 Malaysian Grand Prix.

The first night of testing, Charles went to Pierre’s room, as he’d done so many times in so many places over the years. As usual, they talked about a million miles a minute, frequently saying the same thing and riding the adrenaline high of their first official test day as Formula 1 drivers before they calmed down enough to take turns talking at normal speeds.

There was some Mario Kart, as usual. Then, there was some play fighting over their mutual sabotage in their respective efforts to win the last race, and suddenly their touches went from platonic to not. Then, they were kissing and Charles finally had an answer as to why he’d spent a good part of the last few months scrolling through Pierre’s Instagram and their chats’ photo archives staring at Pierre’s photos for... research into what life in the paddock was as an F1 driver, and why he was suddenly shy around Pierre at the most random times.

An awkward mutual confession, an agreement to keep it secret for fairly obvious reasons, a promise to not let it affect their friendship or their careers, and suddenly, they were boyfriends.

Despite Charles’ best efforts to remain subtle, he’s fairly sure he’s stared adoringly at Pierre in the paddock at least once. The paddock also has a running joke that if you find one of them, the other one will be nearby. Luckily, everyone who sees them automatically explains it to themselves with the twin reasons of “aww, friends who grew up together chasing the same dream” and “it’s a French-speakers’ thing” to the point that no one’s ever questioned them about it.

So yes, Charles is fairly sure that no one in the paddock suspects a thing.

Their families know - mostly because Lorenzo walked in on them making out on Charles’ bed during last year’s summer break and promptly banged the door shut on his panicked way out. That had resulted in Lorenzo being reprimanded at dinner which led to questions about why exactly Lorenzo had slammed a door in the first place and well, if the secret was out in the Leclerc household, they might as well tell Pierre’s parents, given how close both families are.

Surprisingly, despite both of them getting the sex talk as teenagers, no one from either family has talked to them about this new development. No one treats them differently either, though Lorenzo has learned to knock. However, the day after the Lorenzo Incident, two identical boxes of condoms mysteriously appeared in Charles’ room, each accompanied with a matter-of-fact sex-education book and a note to pack the condoms in their suitcases.

They’ve never really discussed this change in their relationship, but in many ways, it also feels like nothing has changed. 

“Well.” Charles considers. “There’s still winter break. If we’re lucky, some summer break might overlap. And we won’t be racing our whole lives.”

“You think we’ll last that long?”

“Of course.”

Pierre frowns at him as though he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle but doesn’t protest. 

Charles takes that as a win.

  


* * *

  


Some time later, Pierre decides that he’s had enough of sitting around and gets up to wash his face. Charles tidies up the tissues and brews coffee to lure Pierre out.

It works. Charles parks himself next to Pierre, their sides brushing.

“Play it again?” whispers Pierre, staring resolutely into his mug. 

“Anything for you,” Charles gently tilts Pierre’s face towards him and presses a quick kiss to Pierre’s lips, mentally noting that they’re still chapped from his earlier tears.

Charles sits down at the piano and adjusts himself. But then - he feels the seat sink. He automatically shifts over to the left, smiling as Pierre moves into the newly-vacated space.

“I don’t think you can reach the keys for the second part.”

Charles measures the distance with his eyes. “Think I can. Anyway, it’s the same. I can always keep it at the lower octave.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s better.”

“Hm?”

“Better when you play along with me.”

Pierre snorts in amusement - the first positive sound he’s made. Charles files the moment away, to be revisited later when he’s alone in his apartment and missing Pierre.

“Show me what I used to do? I don’t remember.”

Charles moves Pierre’s hand into the right position, reminds him to curve his fingers, and talks him through the notes and fingering. He’s thankful that he forced Pierre to at least learn basic solfège years ago. It makes everything so much easier. “Mi, third finger. Ti, thumb.”

He patiently goes over the notes with Pierre until Pierre says he’s got it.

Charles repositions himself.

“Ready?” he murmurs, looking over at Pierre.

“Mm.” Pierre’s staring down at the keys, brows furrowed in concentration. “Count us in when it’s almost my turn.”

Charles does just that.

For someone whose musical education mostly consists of gleefully plopping down next to Charles to tease him, to compliment him, to demand to be taught something, or to sing along with mostly off-key sounds, Pierre’s got a passable sense of tempo. Still, Pierre’s eyes flick between his and Charles’ right hands, watching like a hawk as Pierre relies on his lightning-fast reflexes and Charles’ counting to know when to press the next note. Charles’ more confident notes ring out, complemented by Pierre’s clumsily-pressed notes floating an octave higher.

It’s technically imperfect. It’s emotionally perfect.

Charles finishes off the final round of arpeggios solo and lets the tension seep out of him before turning to Pierre. Pierre’s eyes are shining again and his cheeks are wet.

This time, Charles doesn’t wipe the tears away - he just leans forward to cup Pierre’s cheek and kiss him.

“You did so well,” he says, simply.

“I made so many mistakes,” is Pierre’s despondent reply. Charles wonders when someone at Red Bull last gave Pierre an encouraging word. He pushes that thought away because knows he’ll get angry if he goes down that path.

“Well,” he says lightly. “We can always practice. I’m probably not a good teacher, though.”

Pierre makes a disgruntled sound. “You’re a good teacher.”

Charles laughs. “You’re biased,” he says. “I like it.” 

He gets up to bring Pierre some tissues while Pierre aimlessly pokes at the keys. 

“Let’s try again?” asks Charles, once Pierre has wiped his tears away and blown his nose.

This time, as Pierre joins in to start their duet, Charles relaxes and lets his mind wander amongst memories. 

So many memories.

They’re more in sync and Pierre makes fewer mistakes. When the sounds from the final chord have faded away, Charles lifts his fingers from the piano and turns towards Pierre. Although Pierre’s eyes are still suspiciously wet, he’s smiling a little - the first sunbeam coming through the clouds.

Pierre leans against Charles, who automatically wraps his arm around Pierre’s waist and cuddles him tightly.

“You did so well,” says Charles, again. Pierre remains silent, but he moves his palm to rest on Charles thigh and rests his head on Charles’ shoulder.

They stay like that for a while.

  


* * *

  


Charles plays a few more random songs that he can conjure from the depths of his memory before Pierre decides to shower and change out of his tear-stained clothes.

“Done,” calls Pierre. Charles wanders into the bedroom and begins undressing in preparation for his own shower. 

“I should start replying to people,” muses Pierre, towel around his waist. He roots through his side of the closet for something to wear. Charles pauses, fingers caught at the waistband of his shorts as he follows the water droplets sliding down Pierre’s well-defined arms and back. “I’ve only replied to work stuff.”

“You do that,” says Charles, eyes following a particularly big droplet as it slides down Pierre’s back and disappears under the towel. “Order in?”

“Sushi?”

“Sushi.”

  


* * *

  


Evening finds them side by side on the bed, recovering from a fairly ridiculous amount of sushi.

Pierre alternates between his two phones, messaging up a storm while Charles leans against him and watches tennis highlights on his laptop. Pierre then leaves the room to make a few calls.

“There. Zero unread messages. Replied to everyone. I even called people.”

Pierre walks back into the bedroom and puts away his phones, eyes bleary. He parks himself back on the bed next to Charles and crosses his legs, resting his cheek against Charles’ shoulder.

Charles hits pause on the video and puts his laptop on the bedside table.

“Congrats,” he says, nudging Pierre’s legs with his own.

“Nap time.” 

Pierre stretches out, lies down, and presses himself against Charles. After a few moments, Charles slides down the bed to lie down as well, earning himself a pleased Pierre sound. The light of the golden hour filters through Charles’ windows, bathing them in its gentle diffused warmth. As Charles watches, Pierre drifts into slumber. The lines on his face smooth out, his expression peaceful in a way it hasn’t been in days. 

Pierre will pick himself up.

  


* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **the song that inspired it all**  
>  1\. charles plays "comptine d'un autre été, l'après-midi" from the french film amélie. it is translated as "children’s song from another summer, afternoon". the fic’s title comes from the translation.  
> \- if you follow the details in the fic yes - it is a summer afternoon when charles plays this for pierre, and yes, i did this on purpose  
> 2\. the part that pierre plays along with charles is the slow melody from [0:29](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=29&v=oOUkIdOnEPM) to 0:49 and again from [1:29](https://www.youtube.com/watch?t=89&v=oOUkIdOnEPM) to 1:48. it is slow and simple enough for an untrained person to learn with some practice and a patient teacher.  
> 3\. irl charles’ piano instastories show that he is skilled enough to play comptine. [this](https://musescore.com/guestinpiano/comptine-dun-autre-ete-normale-yann-tiersen) sheet music is accurate  
> 4\. if you correctly guessed the song from charles’ descriptions, please let me know.
> 
>  **irl timeline (2019)**  
>  jul 27: daniil kvyat’s daughter born  
> aug 3-5: hungarian grand prix  
> aug 6: f1 summer break starts  
> aug 12, monday: pierre’s demotion announced  
> [aug 12-14: fic - another summer]  
> aug 29: f1 summer break ends  
> aug 30 - sep 1: belgian grand prix
> 
> i'd list all the irl events and details this fic references but it'd be an entire document so let me know if you want the list. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr at @whatdidwejustdo if you want to message me!
> 
> finally, this is my first fic in the f1 fandom. thank you so much for reading it. i'd love to hear what you think, and i will definitely reply. <3


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